The chapel groaned around us as we stepped inside, ancient walls exhaling a breath stale with centuries of decay. Dust curled lazily in fractured sunbeams filtering through broken stained-glass windows, scattering rainbows across the cracked stone floor. Splintered pews lay toppled like forgotten relics of faith, and at the far end, the once-grand altar sagged beneath cobwebs, a prayer unanswered and long forsaken.
Then it came—a low, mournful sound slithering through the air like mist.
"Whoooo…"
It wasn't the wind. Nor the sigh of crumbling wood. It was something deeper—soft, drawn-out, and soaked in sorrow. Like a soul too tired to rest.
The sound rippled through the chapel, bouncing between broken pillars and shattered pews, until it settled over us like a damp shroud. Even the swirling dust seemed to freeze midair, caught in silent dread.
Ronette's grip tightened on my arm, his voice trembling. "I don't think chapels are supposed to be this creepy…"
"Of course not," I replied lightly, patting his hand as though comforting a startled cat. "Chapels are meant to soothe the soul. Places of peace. Safety."
Ronette nodded, shoulders loosening, breath catching in something like relief. "Oh, I—"
A sudden explosion of wings burst from above. A cloud of bats fell from the rafters like living ink, swirling in a flurry of shadow and shrieks.
"AAACCCCCCKKKKK!" Ronette's voice cracked high enough to chip stone. He flailed, then latched onto me with all the desperate strength of a drowning man.
"L-Lo-Lo-Louis... Let's leave. Please. Before… something bad happens," he begged, shaking like a reed in a storm.
"Oh, come now, Ronette," I turned to him, grin sharp as broken glass. "It's only a handful of blood-sucking animals. Not fanatical cultists or vampi—"
"Louis," Ronette hissed, voice knotted with panic.
"Don't interrupt, it's rude," I scolded, wagging a finger.
"Louis!"
"I don't know how old you are, Ronette, but when someone is talking, you—"
"LOUIS!"
"What?!"
He pointed past me, hand shaking so hard his knuckles whitened.
I turned.
An inch from my face hovered a sunken visage: pale skin stretched thin over bone, bloodshot eyes locked and unblinking. The thing exhaled, and its breath was foul enough to peel paint.
I pinched my nose. "Good heavens. Has no one told you? I'm a kind soul, so I'll say this nicely…"
Its stare narrowed, malice flickering like a dying coal.
"I know hygiene wasn't fashionable in the good old days," I continued, calm as a tutor, "but you, my dear fellow, should consider it a matter of survival."
From my coat, I fished out a small pill and pressed it into his cold, clawed hand.
"Take this. One swallow and your breath will smell like spring flowers."
He looked down at the pill, as though I'd dropped a living insect into his palm.
Ronette leaned in, voice taut. "Isn't that… poison?"
"Yup."
"You're going to kill him?!"
"No," I whispered back, "it's poison for the smell, not the person."
"That… that's a thing?"
"Of course. My master made them. Gave me a whole stash." I held up a cloth pouch, bulging with identical pills.
Ronette blinked. "That's… a lot."
"She's very particular about hygiene," I said solemnly. "I'm to take one every four hours."
"What happens if you don't?"
A shiver crawled up my spine. "She'll whack me."
"Would she actually know?"
"She's got the nose of a bloodhound. Probably was a dog in a past life."
Ronette nodded gravely, as though I'd shared sacred knowledge.
All the while, our new friend hadn't budged.
"You haven't swallowed it yet?" I asked, disappointed. "Don't tell me you want us to help."
The creature's growl was low, gravelly.
"Ah," I murmured, eyes narrowing in revelation.
"What?" Ronette asked, uneasy.
"He doesn't know how to swallow pills," I said, matter-of-fact. "Just like a child."
Ronette arched a brow. "What makes you think that?"
"I used to be like that," I confessed with a sigh.
"I didn't," he shot back, smug.
I squinted at him. "Stop boasting, you cow."
"Cow?"
"Docile, wide-eyed, always chewing something. Fits you."
Then I whispered to Ronette, my plan.
Ronette sighed. "Would that even work?"
"Of course," I said. "Every Asian parent has done it at least once. If it didn't work, they'd have stopped centuries ago."
Ronette nodded, accepting this as ancient, universal truth.
Without a word, he moved—swift as thought, sliding behind the creature. I plucked the pill from its palm, pried open its mouth.
"Here comes the airplane," I cooed sweetly—and shoved the pill down.
The creature gurgled, limbs flailing… then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Whew," I said, wiping imaginary sweat from my brow. "Adult-sized babies are hard work."
"Uhh… Louis?" Ronette's voice had an edge of dread.
"What?"
He knelt, checked for a pulse—then paled. "He's not breathing."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
Ronette nodded, grim.
"Did I… shove it too hard?"
"Can a person die from that?"
"Look at him," I reasoned. "He's all skin and bone. Anything's possible."
I crouched beside the corpse, light spilling through colored glass to cast bruised hues over death. His lips were tinged gray-blue, a faint foam clinging at the corner of his mouth. Dark veins webbed beneath parchment skin, and the metallic tang in the air clung stubbornly.
I clicked my tongue. "Hmmm… looks like he was poisoned. A deadly one."
"You sure?" Ronette asked, peering over my shoulder.
"Positive," I said, drawing a small circle in the air. "My master is a poison master. And I'm… her hopefully-I-don't-die-before-I-master-anything temporary disciple."
"But how was he poisoned?"
I straightened, dusting off my coat. "Could be anything. Something he drank. Something absorbed through a cut. Some poisons crawl in slow, silent as guilt."
Ronette flinched. "That sounds awful."
"Others work by scent," I added, tapping my nose. "Maybe he brushed past a cursed flower. Or inhaled spores."
Ronette's eyes darted to my pouch.
"Could it be…" he began.
"Nah," I dismissed it. "My master wouldn't poison me. Why would she?"
"Right…" he said, though doubt clung to his voice like damp wool.
"Exactly," I said, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "Now, onward! Adventure awaits!"
Ronette didn't move. His gaze lingered on the corpse, robes fluttering faintly in a draft that smelled of rot and regret.
"But… what about the body?" he asked.
I tapped my chin. "Hmm… Master always said poisoned corpses should be cremated, so the poison doesn't spread."
Ronette blinked. "And how exactly do we do that?"
"Why are you looking at me like I'm some fire-loving maniac?" I asked.
"If I didn't know better…" he muttered.
I ignored the jab. "They're Red Robes. They probably prefer burial anyway."
Ronette sighed. "What a dilemma…"
I grinned. "Or—hear me out—we leave it. His friends will handle it."
"That's rude."
"Sure is," I agreed lightly. "But we don't have shovels, firewood, or time for a funeral."
"…True," he admitted, though his eyes still flickered with guilt.
"Then onward!" I declared, raising a hand toward the chapel's shadowed depths. "To glory! To mystery! To whatever waits with fangs and overly dramatic lighting!"
Ronette exhaled like a man resigned to being dragged by fate. "There's no escaping this, is there?"
"Of course not," I replied. "Time only moves forward. And so do we."
"I hope so…" he murmured.
I reached over, tugging his cheeks upward into a crooked smile. "Don't be so glum. We're alive, breathing, and slightly fabulous. Not like that stinko over there." I jerked a thumb toward the corpse.
"Yeah… let's just finish this and go home," Ronette sighed.
"Attaboy!" I flicked his cheek lightly, grin wide.
And with hearts racing, nerves stretched thin as lute strings, we stepped past the fallen body—into the cold, crumbling guts of the ruin, where secrets lingered like dust… and the story waited, hungry to be told.